


A Different Dream

by tinybluepixel



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Canon-Typical Violence, Emily has to come from somewhere!, Low Chaos, M/M, Past Corvo/Jessamine, Slow Burn, a.k.a. the burn is so slow you'll kill me, some mention of torture and killing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-25 20:20:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17128100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinybluepixel/pseuds/tinybluepixel
Summary: The wind howls through the streets and alleyways of Dunwall as all around the city the loudspeakers activate and a somber voice announces the death of an Empress. He speaks of assassination and betrayal, of high treason and murder.They are ringing the bells.And as they throw an innocent man into a prison cell, as traitors gently lift up their victim’s corpse and lay her on a table to be prepared for burial, the whale god watches from afar. And as the conspirators leave, the whale god comes.And then he takes her heart.A Dishonored Pirate!AU complete with Corvo wearing fancy coats, Emily playing with cutlasses, and Samuel proving that he is just a really good guy. Also, you know, a whole bunch of whales.





	1. Prologue: A Light at the Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everybody, this is my first piece of writing in 6? 7? years idk. It's been a while! So please forgive me if I'm a little bit rusty. Also, I really really really like ships, but I'm a bit stupid when it comes to research; so if any hardcore sailors out there find a mistake, please forgive me and let me know! 
> 
> A big thank you goes out for Lauren for yelling about writing with me and also for reading through this chapter and helping me correct my mistakes. You rock! Another thank you to [wehavekookies](http://wehavekookies.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, whose artwork loosely inspired this mess of a fanfiction. Check out their pirate AU tag, it's good stuff! Lastly, I'm on[tumblr](talizorah.tumblr.com) so hmu there if you want to yell at me for some reason.

Listen: if you stay very still, you can hear them. Their song is far away, soft, and tragic. They call for their families; for their lost brethren who are dying a slow death on these new monstrosities some sailors call ships, their calls echoing across the water in a special kind of serenade. The waves slosh against the beach. Overhead, the night’s sky is as dark as it can be, shimmering with stars like the fine velvet that is currently so in fashion in Dunwall. Maybe you’ll hear the wind, howling through the ship’s structure, making the old wood and rusting metal groan. Underneath, a great whale swims with lazy movements, not quite here in this world and yet also not outside of it. It is a peaceful night. A night that should not be significant in any way. And yet, it feels so much heavier, somehow. 

Look there, look closely, maybe you can see them. On the shore, all by themselves. They bend over in pain, fall to the ground in weakness, lean against walls of cold stone to steady themselves. Some cry for help. There will never be any help. Weepers, the people call them, whispering the name in their friends’ ears and hoping no one will ever call them that. The plague is spreading, and it is spreading fast; it crashes through the city mercilessly and hard and unstoppable. Not by the Watch, not by the Overseers, not by Sokolov and his death-powered devices.

Maybe you can feel it? Lives are fading away. The city is dying. It calls out, like the whales; a collective wailing. Everywhere in Dunwall, people are locking their doors, closing their windows, taking their daily dose of elixir. Somewhere, a child might cuddle a doll, a woman might slide a small gun on top of her nightstand, an old man might tuck a charm of bone underneath his pillow, hoping it will whisper secrets to him in his sleep. And below, the rats scuttle about in their tunnels and in the sewers, bringing the stench of plague with them wherever they go.

 

Corvo Attano takes a deep breath.

The night has just started, and yet he wishes for it to be over. His journey has been long, the days exhausting, the nights filled with bad dreams and doubts. How he longed to be safely in his bed, in his home; resting, sleeping. 

He is standing at the bow of a ship, looking across the water. Dunwall is close now. He can practically feel the energy, smell the engines and factories and the smoke they spit out into the air over the city, can hear the whistling of the train carts as they run to the Flooded District and back, dumping their contaminated cargo mercilessly into the streets below. 

The letter, safely tucked inside a pocket in the lining of his coat, weighs more than it should. Corvo can imagine Jessamine’s face as she reads it, her hopeful expression turning to … anger? Disgust? Resignation? For all the years he has known her, he can hardly imagine how she will react to this.

About two miles away, he can see it: a skiff, coming towards him and his ship. He spots two men, tiny flecks of blue in the distance. Captain Geoff Curnow, and some poor sod who has to go out and brave the cold to pick up the Royal Protector from his useless voyage, if he has to guess. 

Corvo sighs and adjusts his coat. Curnow is a good man, loyal to a fault, and his sense of justice is matched only by Jessamine’s. Corvo likes the man, always has, but his nagging questions and his black-and-white attitude considering the law sometimes hinder him in performing his duties as Royal Protector. Still, he is immensely grateful to have a guard captain so dutiful and so skilled.

Curnow and the poor Guardsman both hold out their hands to help him climb over the ship’s rail into the skiff. Corvo ignores them, jumping onto the boat on his own. He has always been a bit of a show-off. Jessamine sometimes calls him ‘dramatic’.

“Cast off,” Curnow yells the moment Corvo is safely inside the boat. Curnow is over fifty years old, and yet still an impressive figure. The uniform of the City Watch suits him. 

“Take us straight to Dunwall Tower,” he says to the other guard, who turns on the motor. It roars to life, stinking of burning oil, and Corvo has to stop himself from physically recoiling at the smell. He never liked whale oil, never trusted it. Where he is from, in Karnaca, they use the wind they have in abundance in that city to power their things. He grew up on ships that use sails instead of oil, and even though he has lived in Dunwall for many years now, he still prefers the Serkonan way. A ship without a sail feels like a ship without a soul.

Curnow and the guard chatter about, the topics ranging from the plague cure they hope Corvo has found to the rat plague itself, and to the superstitions of sailors. Corvo only half-listens, his thoughts racing faster and faster the closer they get to the waterlock.

Dunwall, a city ravaged by the Wrenhaven River. Half the city is water, not even accounting for the Flooded District, and a boat is certainly the most practical vehicle for traveling through Dunwall. The Tower itself, an imposing structure of stone and steel, is situated on an island, and the only way inside the impossibly high walls is the waterlock. 

The closer they come to the waterlock, the narrower the river gets. Looking across the water, Corvo can see a woman standing on a street corner, shoulders hunched over, wiping a trickle of blood from her chin. Soon, she will die of the plague. He has failed her, and everyone else who suffered from this plague. He turns his face away.

As they enter the waterlock, the air becomes ice cold. The metal doors close behind the boat, and the water begins rushing in.

Is this what drowning feels like?, Corvo wonders. The boat begins to slowly make its way to the top, closer and closer to home. Home? He hasn’t been here in months.

At the top, the doors open for them. The boat’s motor sputters to life once more, and Corvo barely has time to take a breath before they dock and leave the boat. And then she is there.

“Corvo! Corvo, you’re back!”

Emily Kaldwin has grown in the seven months since he last saw her. Her hair is shorter, no longer in cute pigtails but cut bluntly at the chin, the way all the ladies wore it in Dunwall since the Boyle Sisters debuted the hairdo at last year’s masquerade. She is wearing a headband matching her frilly white clothing, and Corvo’s heart skips a beat when she hugs him and he realizes that she now reaches up to his chest. She looks younger than her age, but he knows, oh he knows that she is so much smarter than she has any right to be at her age. 

It is not as easy to pick her up as it used to be. Softly, Corvo presses a kiss to her hair.

“I’ve missed you. So much,” she whispers in his ear.

“I’ve missed you, too,” he whispers back. He puts her back on her feet as gently as he can, and she immediately takes his hand and starts to pull.

“Will you play hide and seek with me?” she asks, and the happiness in her voice almost breaks his heart. 

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, acutely aware of Curnow and the guard watching their every move, “I need to speak to your mother.” 

Emily immediately lets go of his hand and regains her composure, just as she was trained and taught to. But Corvo can see the sadness in her eyes, the disappointment. He knows her too well.

“We’ll play hide and seek after,” he tells her, and a small smile returns to her face.

“Promise?” she asks. 

“I promise,” he says, and gives her a playful little shove. “Go on.”

Hopefully, he would not have to break another promise.

 

Jessamine wore black today. 

She is standing at the gazebo, looking out across the city, with Hiram Burrows standing next to her, chewing her ear off. Corvo passes Sokolov, who is painting the High Overseer Thaddeus Campbell standing on the bow of a large ship, gazing over the wide open seas. The man himself is posing for Sokolov in his trademark red coat, illuminated by a whale-oil powered spotlight, looking utterly ridiculous to Corvo. Sokolov, who was already ugly before, seems to have grown another five inches of beard. It does not suit him.

As Corvo climbs the steps leading to the gazebo, he can feel the gaze of every single Watchman in the garden upon him, but are they judging or begging? He cannot tell.

The closer he gets, the clearer he can hear the argument between Jessamine and the Spymaster. Burrows’ face is terribly red; he looks about ready to burst, while Jessamine is the picture of composure. Corvo knows her well, though, and probably better than most people in the palace, and he can tell that she is furious. Her hair is twisted into the sophisticated bun that she hates with a burning passion, but still wears because it makes her look regal and commanding. 

“They’re sick people, not animals,” she says, her knuckles white from clenching her fists so hard, “I will not abandon them.”

For a minute, Corvo fears Burrows will yell at her. It would not have been the first time the Spymaster has lost his temper in front of his Empress. Luckily, her patience is seemingly endless, and she never has a bad word to say about his outbursts. In public, at least.

We’ve gone beyond that question, your Majesty, they’re ...” Burrows says, trailing off as he sees a flash of anger pass over Jessamine’s face for just a split second, then it is gone. 

“They’re my citizens, and we will save them from the plague if we can. All of them. Dunwall Tower is not so tall that it can rise above the stench of death. We will not speak of this again, Spymaster Burrows,” she says, dismissing him with a wave of her hand. He turns around and goes down the stairs past Emily and Corvo, muttering words under his breath that are certainly vile curses and insults towards Jessamine, in addition to something that vaguely sounds like “two days early …”

“Mother, Corvo is back!” Emily announces as she skips towards her mother.

Corvo reaches inside his coat pocket and takes out the letter. It feels almost impossibly heavy.

When one falls into the sea, it is easy to lose direction. Corvo is an experienced swimmer, but right now he feels as if he fell from a great height into the crashing waves below, the water as hard as the cobblestones of Dunwall’s streets. He desperately tries to moderate his breathing, but he is gasping for air, as if he is swimming in the wrong direction, deeper and deeper, until he eventually drowns.

He takes a step forward, and his breathing eases.

Jessamine turns around and looks at him. Carefully, he bows before her the way it is expected.

“Corvo,” she says, “It’s a fair wind that brings you home to me.”

He missed her so much. How he wishes to rush towards her, wrap her in his arms, and whisper in her ear that everything will be fine, that they have succeeded in their endeavor, that she doesn’t need to worry anymore. But that would be a lie, and they are not alone. So, Corvo keeps his mouth shut. He hands her the letter wordlessly. As she breaks open the wax seal, unfolds the paper, and reads it once, then twice, then a third time, he watches and waits without moving. 

“So they refuse to help,” Jessamine says, softly. She folds the letter back together, her eyes glazing over with tears. She swallows. Her face is slack, her eyes defeated.

“Mother?” Emily asks, grabbing her mother’s hand. Jessamine takes a deep breath, closing her eyes for a short moment, then squeezes Emily’s hand. She doesn’t smile.

“I had hoped the other cities had dealt with this before, and maybe had a cure. But they don’t. We’re at a breaking point,” she says, and her voice, usually so sure and steady, trembles a little. “Cowards,” she says, crossing her arms. “They’re going to blockade us. They’re waiting to see if the plague turns the city into a graveyard.”

Jessamine turns her head towards the skyline. Dunwall Tower is one of the highest points in the city. One can see everything, from the Estate District to the ocean. From so far up, it seems peaceful, clean, advanced. But Jessamine was right, as she so often is: Dunwall Tower is not so high that it can rise above the stench of death. There are fires on the outskirts of the city, where people are desperately trying to burn their dead to eradicate a danger of infection, and the railways to the Flooded District are visible even from up here. But the worst is the knowledge of it, that down there in those very streets that make up their home, people are dying and suffering and getting sicker and sicker by the minute. 

“Are you okay, mother? You seem sad,” Emily asks. Her childlike innocence breaks Corvo’s heart. For all her intelligence, she is still so young, so happy. 

He blinks, and for a split second he feels as if someone is watching them. He blinks again, and the feeling is gone.

“Yes, darling, mother is fine,” Jessamine says, softly stroking Emily’s hair. She takes a lock that came loose from her headband and gently tucks it behind her daughter’s hair.

Blink. There it is. Blink. It’s gone again. 

Corvo turns around.

“Wait, where are the guards?” he hears Jessamine say, and draws his sword. The metal screeches, and he positions himself in front of his Empress; and there it is again, and then Corvo blinks, and it is gone, and he could swear there was a man in his field of vision, but now that man is gone. Is he imagining things? He slowly looks around, looking for signs of intruders, dropping into a fighting stance, and then they’re there.

“What are they doing on the rooftops?” Emily says, and that’s when he finally sees them coming.

He blinks, and suddenly they are swarmed with attackers. Men and women in thick leather coats, their faces obscured by masks, and they come closer, closer, closer. Each time he blinks, they have closed in another ten yards, and they each carry swords.

In two seconds, three attackers are upon him.

He takes out his gun, shoots the first man in the chest, then blocks the slash of a sword, but each time he hits, the men dissolve into smoke. Another hit, another man, and hot white pain slices into his shoulder. He barely has time to turn around. Another three people attack him. They blink away the second he injures them. 

“Look out!” Jessamine screams, and another one comes at him. Corvo aims, shoots, and hits. 

For a minute, the attacks ceace. Emily runs towards him, burying her face in his shirt. She is trembling, her breath coming fast; he puts his hand on her back and feels her shaking with tiny sobs.

Corvo does not see the attacker before it’s too late and he is lifted into the air, helplessly watching as a man in a long, red coat appears, slaps Jessamine and pushes her out of the way, grabs Emily and throws her into another man’s arms, who disappears into the shadows with her in tow.

The man in red grabs his sword tighter. He pushes Jessamine back until they reach the balustrade. He pushes her against, choking her, and then time seems to slow down as he lifts up the sword, and with one final, devastating move, stabs her in the heart.

Corvo cannot scream. He cannot move. 

The minute Jessamine crumbles to the floor, her murderer dissolves into black shadow, and Corvo crashes onto the hard marble. 

From far away, a whale sings it’s tragic song, calling for family lost to men. Overhead, the night’s sky has become even darker as before. The stars are gone, as if someone has extinguished them. It should have been a normal night, but Corvo was right: It felt heavier, somehow, as he arrived. 

He reaches out to Jessamine. Slowly, he drags himself across the blood-stained floor. The blood is still hot from where it is spilling out of her body, but he does not feel it. His whole body seems numb as he reaches Jessamine, carefully pulling her towards him. She is still breathing, barely. Her heart flutters like a moth trapped by the light. 

“Corvo …” she whispers. He tries to answer, tries to tell her that everything will be alright, that she will live, but the words won’t leave his mouth. He has failed her. It was his fault.

“It’s all coming apart,” she says, and breathes out, one last time. 

Her eyes close.

Her heart stops.

The Empress is dead.

 

After what feels like both hours and seconds, Corvo hears footsteps. Multiple people, running towards him. He does not care. He cradles Jessamine, strokes her hair, kisses her forehead. The sword is lying next to him. 

“Look at what he’s done!” A guard comes up to him, the tip of his sword at Corvo’s throat. Corvo barely hears him speak.

“Yes, he’s killed the Empress,” says Spymaster Burrows. Jessamine’s hair is soft. He touches her face one last time, then they rip him away from her. 

Another guard holds a pistol to his head.

“What did you do with young Lady Emily, Corvo?” Burrows asks. Corvo does not speak. He stares at the ground. His fault. His fault. His fault.

“Her own bodyguard. Ironic,” the guard with the pistol says. 

“I will see you beheaded for this,” Burrows growls. He gives an order to the Watchmen.

Corvo closes his eyes before the sword hilt hits the side of his head. Unconsciousness seems almost welcome, now.

The wind howls through the streets and alleyways of Dunwall as all around the city the loudspeakers activate and a somber voice announces the death of an Empress. He speaks of assassination and betrayal, of high treason and murder. 

They are ringing the bells. 

And as they throw an innocent man into a prison cell, as traitors gently lift up their victim’s corpse and lay her on a table to be prepared for burial, the whale god watches from afar. And as the conspirators leave, the whale god comes.

And then he takes her heart.


	2. The Guilt They Seek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first full-length chapter, in which Corvo escapes prison by not-quite-sinking the Titanic and I seriously doubted whether ships have ventilation shafts. Also, things get different, at least a little.

As always, Corvo is shrouded in darkness. White hot pain shoots up his legs; he cannot feel his hands. When they ask their questions, he does not hear them. 

 

They tried everything. First, large hands gripped his hair and forced his head into a bucket of water until he could not breathe, until he was sure he was about to die, but the hands pulled him back up when the water started rushing into his lungs. They revived him, breathing life back into him, and then repeated the whole process once more. After deciding that this didn’t work, they took hot irons and pushed them into his skin, leaving red marks that would never fade. He screamed, he cursed, he did not talk. They would not get a confession out of him. Eventually, his torturers got creative. Corvo does not remember most of those sessions, and he is thankful for it. But he would not break. No matter how much they cut him, burned him, shocked him, he would never confess to a crime that he never even committed.

Sometimes, the Lord Regent himself showed up to hear Corvo scream. Hiram Burrows, elevated to the highest position of power open to him, stood in a corner and watched as an innocent man cried in pain. He did not care. 

Afterwards, they brought him back to his cell to suffer in solitude. He always welcomed the sweet silence, only broken by the soft mutterings of the prisoner in the cell next to his. He did not mind that his cell was filthy, that there were rats, that the food was disgusting. Peace, for a while. 

 

He is being tortured once again when he hears the news. 

Hiram Burrows stands in a corner, watching with his evil eyes as the torturer picks up the hot iron and presses it against Corvo’s chest. Corvo howls; his senses cease to function for a few second as the pain flashes through his entire body once, twice, an endless amount of times. He tilts his head up to the ceiling. The sign hanging directly above his head says: “Order Shall Prevail.” He suppresses a laugh. 

Heavy steps. Coming closer. A red coat, right in front of him. Campbell. Traitor.

“This is your final chance, Corvo,” the High Overseer says, crossing his arms in front of his body as if to make himself seem more imposing. To reassure himself, maybe? Corvo could not tell, nor did he care. 

“Sign the confession,” Campbell drones on, pointing to a sheet of paper on a table close to Corvo, “and let me give you the rites to put your spirit at ease.”

If he weren’t tied to this cursed chair with heavy handcuffs, Corvo would have killed him right there, right this second. His spirit would never be at ease as long as Jessamine’s murder went unpunished and Emily remained missing. He heard the guards talking more than once, and knows that she is still out there; alone, scared, without a mother to comfort her and without Corvo to protect her. And standing before him right now is Thaddeus Campbell, a man who claims to be holy, and talks peace and relief as if he doesn’t cause pain and suffering wherever he goes, punishing other people in his pursuit of power and pleasure.

The iron hits him again, his vision fizzling out for a few seconds as he tries not to scream. He doesn’t want to give them the satisfaction.

Burrows walks towards him, crawling out of his dark corner like the little spider he is, and waves the torturer away.

“That’s enough for now,” he says with a dismissing gesture of his hands, “Get out. Let’s give the man some time to think.”

The torturer leaves. Corvo watches each and every step the man takes, and silently vows to take his revenge one day for all the pain he has suffered at the hands of this monster. As the torturer closes the heavy metal door behind himself, Campbell and Burrows come closer, the look of concern on their faces replaced by devilish smiles. Burrows leans over him.

“Corvo,” he says and sighs, “The Empress is dead, her daughter is hidden away, and no one will ever know the truth.” 

Is he right? Will no one avenge Jessamine? Will no one save Emily? Will no one know what really happened that day on the roof of Dunwall Tower? 

Campbell sneers. He can probably see the despair in Corvo’s eyes. He is far too tired to hide it away. 

“Yes, unlucky you,” Campbell says, amusement in his voice. Corvo wants to gauge his eyes out. “Tomorrow you’ll be executed, but it’s for a good cause.”

Execution. It should not be a surprise, and yet it is. He never expected to die before signing this fake confession. 

“This country needs strong leadership now,” Campbell drones on, “Someone to guide the weak, and that’s where we come in.” He pats Burrows on the shoulder. As if he really believes he is the leader the people of Dunwall need. They need someone compassionate, someone who actually cares about them. Campbell doesn’t care in the slightest, Burrows maybe even less. They just want power. And to achieve that goal, they are willing to walk over bodies. 

The Lord Regent starts talking, something about Corvo being in the wrong place at the right time, but he only half-listens. He is tired, so tired. If only he could just close his eyes and wait until they chop his head off. Maybe death will no be so bad, he thinks, but then the thought of Emily crying over her mother’s death flashes through his mind, and suddenly the determination to survive and live is back, as fierce as when he was first brought here. 

Burrows brings his face right to Corvo’s and stares him in the eye.

“Someone has to take the fall,” he whispers, and Corvo knows his man feels no remorse for his actions. There is no regret in his heart.

“Goodbye, Corvo,” Burrows says, and calls for the guards.

 

His cell is cold and dark and dirty. The guards throw him on the mattress with a good amount of force, and his head hits the concrete wall. A terrible shrieking noise of metal grinding across stone pierces his ears as they close the door and lock it.

He lies there, unable to move from the pain. Sometimes, he would like to pretend that those sessions don’t get to him, that the torture doesn’t break him, but that would be a lie. He hates the men who are doing this to him, he hates that he is so powerless. 

As he thinks, he slowly drifts of to sleep.

He has not dreamed since he arrived at Coldridge. Instead, a soft, calming sea of blue welcomes him. Far away, a whale lazily floats across the endless nothingness. Corvo likes it here. It feels peaceful. He has visited this place multiple times, and every single time, the day’s pain falls off of him and is replaced by a feeling of lightness.

Corvo does not know what this place is called, but he greatly prefers it to nightmares. Except for the whales that sometimes showed up far away in the distance, he has always been alone here. Below him are cobblestones, and below those there is an endless abyss of blue. Corvo stands up and stretches his legs a little. His wounds are closed, his bruises are healed, his scars are faded. Far away from where he is standing, he can hear the soft singing of the great whale, calling out to its brothers and sisters out in the world. Corvo takes some cautious steps, careful to not fall off the platform he is currently standing on, and just moves around for a bit. He completes some of the training exercises he used to do in the courtyard of Dunwall Tower every morning, just to clear his head somewhat. Even in his ‘dreaming,’ the fact that his execution awaits doesn’t leave him. He needs a plan. He needs to get out. 

He practices a few jabs and punches, and imagines using them on Burrows. It makes him feel a little better. 

It is a strange feeling, to be more awake in sleep than in real life, but Corvo welcomes it. A tiny part of him wants to stay forever. 

Just as he finishes another set of exercises, a terrible screeching noise fills the Void. Corco recognizes it instantly as his cell door opening, and wakes up with a jolt.

Is it time already? His throat closes up, and a terrible numbness settles in his arms and legs. The pain from his injuries rushes back into his body. 

A guard stands on the other side of the bars, slowly sliding the door open. The metal scratches across the concrete floor once more, and the guard slowly slips a tray of food into the cell as Corvo watches warily from his mattress. A large piece of probably stale bread and some veggies. Nothing extraordinary for a last meal.

“You should eat, Corvo,” the guard says, “This meal comes from a friend.” He leaves, his footfalls heavy on the bare concrete.

A friend? Corvo has no friends left. The nobility never liked him because of his foreign birth, and Jessamine is dead. Cautiously, he gets up and inspects the tray. The corner of a piece of paper is visible underneath the bread. Sloppy.

He picks up the bread, and finds a note and a heavy brass key. The key looks like it could fit the lock on his cell door. He inspects the note.

 

_ Corvo, _

_ Who we are is irrelevant right now. Just know that we have faith in you. _

_ Here is the key to your cell. Once you're out, head for the prison's Interrogation Room. Take the explosive there and blow open the hull. When the bomb goes off, run. Lose yourself in the sewers, you'll find some useful gear stashed there. _

_ One of the prison guards will leave a weapon just outside your cell. _

_ And good luck. We need you alive and well for what's to come. _

_ \- A friend _

 

A friend, it says. A friend with connections, with enough money to bribe men of the city watch into helping the murderer of the Empress escape, to acquire a bomb and have it placed inside the Interrogation Room of the highest-security prison in all of the isles, and to leave him a weapon. Who is left with such power and influence? For now, the mystery would have to stay unsolved. This was his only chance. He had to take it.

The key fits and turns effortlessly. Corvo does his best to open the door as carefully as he can, but it still screeches. He waits for a few seconds that feel like an eternity, but no guard comes running. On a table in front of the wall opposite his cell there is a sword. The edge is dull and there are a few spots of rust, but it would do. 

Coldridge is the most advanced prison ship in the Empire. It is a monstrum of steel and concrete and suffering. Most of the time, it is docked in Dunwall harbor, one of the only harbours to be large enough for this gigantic ship. The death of hundreds of whales powers the prison, and the stinking black smoke it bellows out into the sky makes the citizens of Dunwall cough and curse. In his time as Royal Protector, Corvo made a few trips to inspect the ship for functionality and safety, and he knows the layout. He knows that the halls are a labyrinth of tight passages and security checkpoints, and he knows that the Interrogation Room is right next to the engine room, so that the deafening noise of the machines masks the sound of screaming. 

He doesn’t need to search for long before he finds a ventilation shaft. He pries off the grate and softly sets it on the ground as to not alert any guards with the sound of it crashing down, and climbs up inside the shaft. 

It is terribly hot. Corvo can hear the rumble of the machines as he crawls through the tight space, quickly drenched in sweat. He inches forward, careful to make no sound. Occasionally, there is a vent that he has to quickly and quietly pass. Through them, he can see guards on their patrols in front of the cell blocks and through the corridors. When he gets to what he assumes is the break room, he stops and listens.

“How come so many people are coming to the execution tomorrow?” a guard with a mustache asks. He looks young, way too young to be out of training already, and is eating a rotten-looking tyvian pear.

“That’s because it’s Corvo Attano being executed,” another guard answers, his hair slicked back with so much pomade that it looks wet, “The former Royal Protector who murdered the Empress and abducted her daughter?”

The guard with the mustache nods.   
“Oh yeah, that guy,” he says, “I saw the senior officers dragging him back to his cell. He looked bad.” 

“I don’t know what they’re doing to him down there in Interrogation, but it doesn’t seem pleasant.”

“So it’s an occasion, tomorrow?”

“Yeah, all the high and mighty nobles are coming to see the Royal Protector’s head chopped off? Doesn’t seem much better than us bettin’ on the dog fights,” the first guard says. 

Corvo dares not to take a breath. He slowly inches forward, trying to get away from the grate. If they look up, if they hear him make a sound, he is a dead man.

“You know what,” the guard continues, “I don’t think he did it.” The other man immediately shushes him. 

“Don’t talk about that here. Or anywhere else. Corvo Attano is guilty and will be executed for his crimes. Order will prevail,” he says, and shoves past his colleague on his way out of the room.

 

Corvo is almost at the Interrogation Room when the alarms go off. He expected this, but the shrill sound still makes his heart skip a beat. It was only a matter of time until one of the officers on duty found his cell empty and the door open. Corvo is glad that he didn’t leave any bodies behind. Below him, he hears guards running around, frantically searching for him, shouting commands at others, yelling for help with securing the area. 

Corvo drops down out of the nearest ventilation grate on top of a guard. He slams his head onto the floor, knocking him out instantly. He doesn’t stop to check if the man is still breathing, but cuts the key from his belt with his sword. The key fits perfectly into the lock of the Interrogation Room and Corvo pulls the guard’s body in behind him, then closes the door. He quickly hides the body in a dark corner and walks over to the other end of the room.

The room is illuminated by a single whale oil lantern, casting a pale blue light onto the coarse, bare walls and the chair. The chair.

Oh, how he screamed in this chair. He died and came back to life, cried and cursed, begged and bled in this chair. But he did not break, and now he is on his way out, into freedom and towards Emily.

The safe is an imposing thing, all dark steel and a large lock mechanism. Normally, the numbers on the lock are set to 0-0-0, but today, the numbers are different and the safe door is open just a tiny sliver. 

Corvo pulls it open. It is empty, except for a ship in a bottle and a strange contraption of pipes and tape, smelling faintly like a gun that was just fired. The bomb. So small, so important.

He grabs it, cradling it against his chest like a baby, then gives the chair one last, hateful look and hurries out of the room back the way he came.

 

The ship is on lockdown. Every single hatch leading to the deck has been closed and locked. Two guards were stationed at each of the exits. Every single man on this prison ship was on high alert, constantly looking for a dark figure hiding in the shadows. None of them notice Corvo as he sneaks deeper and deeper, far away from an exit. None of them know about the bomb. None of them suspect a thing. 

The Coldridge Prison Ship has several watertight compartments, separated by bulkheads that can be closed off in case of an emergency. Despite the lockdown, no one has sealed the bulkheads, and Corvo is able to easily slip past them. Almost no guards are stationed down here. The few that are patrolling are easily choked out and hidden in dark corners. Corvo haunts the ship like a nightmare; the complex system of tubes and valves and pipes is a master assassin’s playground. He reaches the frontmost compartment with ease. Carefully, he seals the bulkhead behind him. The ship can survive multiple compartments flooding, but too many and it would sink, and Corvo knows that most of the prisoners would drown. No one would save them. He makes sure the seal is watertight, and continues on.

The bomb attaches easily to the hull; it clicks a few times as Corvo activates the complicated-looking mechanism on its side. He quickly gets as far away from it as possible, pressing his back against the cold metal of the opposite wall. 

The bomb explodes with a thundering boom that shakes the entire hull. Despite the ringing in his ears, Corvo pushes forward. Where once was a sheet of metal separating the inside of the ship from the endless ocean is now a large hole, water rushing in. Corvo breathes in and takes the plunge into the water. 

For one, two, three seconds all he feels is the sharp pricking of tiny icy needles on his skin as the freezing water completely surrounds him. Then, he feels the muscles in his arms burn as he struggles against the water sucking him back into the ship. But Corvo Attano is a fighter, and he has tasted freedom after six long months. 

For just a fraction of a second he thinks he sees a whale in the distance with eyes as black as the night, but then he blinks, at it is gone, as if it was never there. A mirage, perhaps.

He breaks through the surface of the water and takes several greedy gulps of air. He allows himself a very short rest, then looks back to see how far he is from Coldridge. The ship still looms over him like a shadow made of metal. Faintly, in the distance, men shout about a leak, an explosion, and rushing water. Corvo dives back under the water. 

He doesn’t know where the nearest sewer entrance is, because he never cared. An obvious oversight; the sewer was an excellent escape route since it was connected to all parts of the city. A labyrinth below. 

He is lucky. As he dives underneath the surface to hide from the Watchmen’s eyes searching the water for him, he sees a pipe closed off with bars. He swims towards it. The bars are rusty and brittle; they break after a few forceful kicks. The pipe leads upwards, and soon his head is overwater and he breathes in the disgusting air. Coughing, he straightens himself as far as possible, and starts wading through the bracky water.

Turns out, the sewer is even more disgusting than Corvo expected it to be. Several times, he has to evade rat swarms hungry for blood and flesh, and he finds more than one corpse. 

When he comes to the first intersection, he panics for a second. The note never mentioned a route he should take. He pulls it out of from where he stashed it inside his pocket and skims it again, but it just mentions that he should lose himself in the sewers and that there is gear for him somewhere. 

He basically stumbles across the second note while frantically searching the first one for any kind of hint. He steps on it, and the rustling of the paper startles him. He puts the first note back into his pocket and picks up the second one. It is the same kind of paper, the same blocky, large handwriting. 

 

_ Corvo, if you're reading this it means our plan worked and you've broken free from Coldridge. One of our contacts has hidden weapons for you somewhere deeper in the sewers. The symbols will guide you. Grab the gear and find Samuel where these tunnels dump into the river. He will bring you to us. _

_-_ __ A Friend Who Will Meet You Soon _ _

 

 

A friend. Maybe it’s true. Maybe Corvo has a friend out there somewhere. Some rich noble disliked by the Lord Regent who is desperate to see Emily reinstated on the throne. A general who is still loyal to the Kaldwin family. Someone else, who just really likes Corvo. Who knows? It could be anyone. 

Corvo looks around for the symbols mentioned in the note. He finds them easily enough, a bird and a sword sketched badly with chalk onto the stone wall. The tip of the sword points to the left, so Corvo goes that way, but the way forward is blocked by a set of bars and a gate. There’s a crank wheel, but a corpse is draped over it. Corvo carefully moves it away and notices that the man’s eyes and fingers have been eaten by rats. There are two black holes in his faces where his eyes should be, and it sparks a memory in Corvo - but then it’s gone. He unceremoniously dumps the body on the floor next to the wall and then turns the wheel just enough so that he can slip underneath the gate. He climbs past yet another swarm of rats and sees the next symbol pointing to the left, and follows. There, he finds a nondescript suitcase, brown and fairly banged up, the leather scratched and torn in places. It is unlocked, and Corvo quickly opens it. 

What he finds amazes him. It is a sword, and the second he picks it up it feels right. It is made of a smooth dark metal, not steel, and the edge is so sharp it draws blood when he only lightly touches it. The hilt is engraved with a scene of whales swimming next to each other, the sun hitting the water, and it seems almost lifelike. Corvo runs his fingers over the artwork on this weapon, and his breath catches. There’s a tiny lever on the side, and when he pulls it, the sword snaps in half and the blade disappears into the hilt. It is a marvelous piece of engineering. Corvo is speechless as he continues to search the suitcase. He finds a delicately-crafted crossbow, small enough to be operated with one hand, several crossbow bolts of different types, and a heavy iron key, slightly rusted. Corvo doesn’t bother closing the suitcase, but continues his journey through the sewers. 

 

A pipe spills out its disgusting contents into the mouth of the Wrenhaven river at the edge of the city. The current takes the sewage out into the sea. Not the most clean of systems, and probably dangerous in times of plague, but Corvo can’t be bothered with rebuilding the infrastructure of Dunwall’s sewers right now. He drops down onto the coarse sand at the riverbank and turns his face into the evening sun. Freedom. He can feel the wind in his hair, a soft breeze on his skin. A few meters away, a skiff is anchored, softly swaying on the river.

A warning sound slices through the air, and somewhere in the city above, the speakers activate. 

“Attention, Dunwall citizens,” the voice of the Propaganda Officer sounds, “The assassin Corvo, responsible for the murder of our fair Empress and the disappearance of Lady Emily, heir to the throne, has temporarily escaped state custody.” Corvo has to suppress a chuckle at the remark about this being a temporary situation. He has no intention of ever returning to prison, not as long as the Lord Regent is still in power.

“Any evidence as to his whereabouts must be delivered …” the announcer continues, but Corvo doesn’t listen anymore. He gets closer and closer to the skiff, and looks to see it someone is waiting for him.

A man sits inside the boat, his shoulders hunched over. He has grey hair and a face marked by the harsh winds and salty waves of the sea. He raises a hand as Corvo gets closer.

“Samuel?” Corvo asks, his voice hoarse. The man nods.

“I’m a friend!” he shouts over to Corvo, who flips the mechanism on his sword to retract the blade. He wades over to the skiff and climbs inside. 

Samuel shakes his hand almost eagerly. Corvo is amused to find that he has a little welcome mat inside his skiff; it adds a nice touch. 

“I work for some good people who want very much to meet you,” Samuel says. His accent betrays him as Dunwall born and bred, a member of the lower classes, but he also has a twang in his speech that only men who spent a long time at sea have. Corvo has always been good at 

judging people, and he is sure that Samuel is a good man. But he can’t rely on his gut feeling for now; he has to be aware of every little detail and be prepared for betrayal. Even from a man as likeable as Samuel.

“They said you’d come out here, but I can still hardly believe it,” Samuel says with a chuckle in his voice. “Did you really blow up Coldridge Prison?” 

Corvo nods with a small smile and Samuel’s eyes widen. 

“Who are these people who want to meet me?” Corvo asks, hiding the curiosity in his voice. 

“I’ll take you to them,” Samuel says. He starts the skiff’s motor, and it sputters to life with a deep cough. Corvo makes himself as comfortable as possible while Samuel heads for open water.

 

He spots it from afar. It’s the only ship around.

A galley lies anchored in the water a couple of miles away from Dunwall, looking run-down and miserable. The sails are torn, partly hanging down, and even from far away Corvo can see that river krusts have attached themselves to the hull. It’s about a hundred feet long, if not a bit more, and has three masts, but even those have seen better days: the first one looks cracked, as if half of it was cracked. It is a former slave ship, from a time when the Empire sent out slavers to go to Pandyssia, to come back with hundreds of young men for forced labor in the silver mines or the factories. Emperor Euhorn Kaldwin eventually ended the practice, but not before the industrial revolution of whale oil came and made slave labor practically obsolete. Corvo is familiar with the dark past of the Empire; Jessamine had told him a great deal about it and had hoped to somehow atone for what her predecessors did. But of course, she died before she was able to. Now, most of these former slave ships are used for cargo and trading, but they are steadily being replaced by the monstrosities invented by Sokolov. 

The wind has turned violent, and the waves crash against the ship. Corvo and Samuel have to hold on to the rails of the skiff to not fall over. It is too tiny of a boat for this kind of weather, but looking at the galley before them, Corvo suspects that they don’t have a lot of money for a better alternative. 

“The Hound,” Samuel says, pointing to the ship. “We thought it best to hide out at sea. Now that you’ve escaped, the City Watch is gonna tear the whole city apart. But these bastards won’t find us.”

“Is she in seafaring condition?” Corvo asks. He seriously doubts it.

“Not really, not right now, but she could be,” Samuel says. “We don’t really have a crew for a ship this big, and we’d need to be replacing the sails, but the Admiral is working on it. In an emergency however, she should be able to get us at least a few sea miles away from here.”

Eventually, they reach the side of the galley; Samuel ties the skiff to it with a series of improvised but sturdy-looking sailor’s knots. He motions for Corvo to climb up the side.

“Come on, I’ll introduce you to the Admiral Havelock and the rest of the Loyalists,” Samuel says. Corvo vaguely remembers the name Havelock, but cannot put a finger on which context he heard the name in, nor has he got the faintest idea what he looks like. 

“What is he like? The Admiral, I mean,” he asks Samuel, who chuckles.

“He’s a force to be reckoned with,” Samuel says. “If anyone can help you find Lady Emily and clear your name, he can.”

They reach the deck, and Corvo looks around. It is deserted. However, even though the ship looks like it has seen better days, the wood is clean; it looks like it has been scrubbed only recently. 

“I expect they’re hard at work down there,” Samuel says and points to a door presumably leading to the Captain's quarters. “Best join them. They’ll help you get whoever really killed the Empress.”

Corvo walks up to the door. It is made of dark wood and stained glass, and it probably used to be pretty, but now the glass is cracked and the wood is splintering. 

The door opens to a large cabin. A writing desk is stuffed into a corner, full of papers and books and an audiograph machine. To the right, there is a large bed, the sheets unmade. In front of the bed, there are two armchairs and a shelf full of various alcoholic drinks. In these armchairs, two men sit: one tall, with broad shoulders and greying hair slicked back, wearing a navy uniform; the other thin and spindly, with a receding hairline and clothes befitting a noble. They are deep in conversation and don’t seem to be noticing Corvo at first.

“So it’s starting at last, Admiral,” the nobleman says, taking a large sip from a glass of whiskey, “We found our man. Even after six months in Coldridge, he was able to escape.”

“Not surprising,” the Admiral says. His voice is deep, composed. He, too, is holding a whiskey tumblr, but his is still full. “You’ve heard the stories, Pendleton.”

Corvo approaches the two, slipping out the shadows. Pendleton jumps a bit, but quickly regains his composure. 

The Admiral stands up. 

“The man of the hour is here!” he says. “Corvo, I’m Admiral Havelock, a true servant of the Empire, like you.” He holds his hand out, and Corvo shakes it. The Admiral’s handshake is painfully firm. His hands are larger than Corvo’s.

“And I’m Lord Treavor Pendleton. I represent the nobility in our little group,” the nobleman introduces himself, and bows. Corvo does the same, but does not talk. He knows Pendleton, or at least the family. They own silver mines, and he knows that they still use slave labor to make themselves richer and richer, only to spend that money on prostitutes and fancy parties. Treavor’s older brothers, twins Custis and Morgan, are snakes, and he assumes their little brother isn’t much different.

“We’ve been building a coalition of loyalists, aimed at ending the Lord Regent’s tyranny and restoring the throne,” Havelock says. He walks over to the shelf, fills another whiskey tumbler and offers it to Corvo. He takes it, but does not drink. He cannot trust these men, not yet. 

“We’ve got big plans, but we can’t do any of it without you,” the Admiral continues, “We need your skills.” 

Corvo nods.

“You have them,” he says. 

“Good,” Havelock says, “And in helping us, we’re going to help you destroy the men who murdered the Empress.”

“I’m sorry, Corvo, you must be exhausted,” Pendleton says, gingerly taking the whiskey tumbler from Corvo’s hand and pouring the contents into his own glass, “We can discuss this further one’s you recovered. But before you retire, you should introduce yourself to Piero, the inventor who made the weapons we left for you in the sewers. He is in the workshop below deck. Lydia will bring you to him.”

The door opens behind Corvo and a middle-aged servant woman enters, her hair tied into a neat bun. She motions for him to follow, which he does. They step out on deck, and Lydia sets a quick pace towards the other end of the ship.

“We’re glad to have you here, Corvo. You’re a lot younger than I expected” she says. “But be careful with Piero, he can be … difficult, sometimes.” She opens a hatch and climbs down the ladder that leads into the ship. Corvo follows her. He hears the sound of an electric saw coming from below and smells burned whale oil. Corvo is curious to meet the man who made these weapons, despite Lydia’s warning. 

When they reach the bottom of the ladder, Lydia opens a door and lets Corvo inside, then disappears into the hallway. Corvo walks inside the workshop and takes a quick look around.

There’s several canisters of whale oil in the corner, casting a soft blue light on their surroundings. Otherwise, the room is full of tables with all kinds of tools on them; not one space is unoccupied. Everything is littered with blueprints and wrenches and all kinds of technical equipment that Corvo cannot identify. In the center of the room, a man is drilling away at something, muttering to himself. He has a pair of tiny glasses on his nose, the wire frame slightly bent. Without looking up, he starts talking to Corvo.

“I’ll be crafting your weapons and gear, all custom work,” he says. “The tools of a master assassin.” He stops the drill, and Corvo can see what he is working on: a mask, shaped like a skull. Terrifying, made out of the same metal as his sword, with lenses for eyes and lined with dark velvet.

“What is this?” he asks.

“The assassin’s mask,” Piero answers. “You’re a wanted man. Everyone knows your face. But this mask will mean terror to them. Strangely, the design came to me in a dream.”

Piero picks up the mask and walks towards Corvo. 

“Hold still, now,” he says, and puts the mask on Corvo’s face. “Can you see normally?”

He cannot. The lenses splinter his vision into hundreds of fractals; he immediately gets a headache. Piero produces a screwdriver from somewhere and starts adjusting the lenses. Slowly, his vision returns to normal, albeit slightly magnified.

“Better now?” Piero asks, and Corvo nods. He takes off the mask and hands it back to Piero. The man is inspecting him like one would an insect, pinned to a table. It makes Corvo uncomfortable, and he really wishes he could disappear. Piero must have sensed his discomfort, because he turns around and starts tinkering with a little piece of steel.

“You must be exhausted,” he says, “I advise that you get some sleep. Your room is down the hall, the last door to the right.”

“Thank you,” Corvo says and immediately turns around. He flees the workshop, taking a deep breath the second he closes the door behind him. Piero has a look in his eyes that doesn’t sit right with him, as if he knows something dangerous. A secret? Still, Corvo doesn’t think the man himself will be a threat to him, but it never hurts to be careful, especially now that he is the most wanted man in the Empire. He walks down the hallway to the last door on the right, stopping only when he hears someone talking.

“Is this man dangerous?” a soft, female voice asks. 

“Yes, very much so,” a man answers, his speech condescending and stilted. “But no need to fear. He is hear to work for our masters.”

“People say he killed the Empress.”

Corvo turns the doorknob, steps into the room, and closes the door. He does not want to hear the rest of that particular conversation. 

The room is bare except for a narrow bed, a nightstand, and an empty desk. Corvo quickly undresses, but puts his crossbow on the nightstand and his sword under the pillow. He keeps his boots on as he lays down in bed. All around him, he can hear the wood creaking. The wind is howling outside, and there is a noticeable draft close to his head. He wraps the thin, clammy blanket tighter around himself and shuts his eyes. 

This almost-empty ship and the people on it, they are his last hope. A group of loyalists set on returning Emily to the throne and avenging the Empress. But are they to be trusted? Does he dare sleep tonight, or will he stay awake, waiting for someone to come slit his throat after midnight?

In the end, exhaustion makes that decision for him. Mere minutes after his head hit the pillow, Corvo surrenders to sleep. 

In his dreaming, he opens his eyes and the ship is gone, replaced by an endless abyss of blue. But this time, he is not alone.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, find me on [tumblr](talizorah.tumblr.com) if you wanna yell at me.
> 
> Coldridge Prison Ship is based on the Olympic Class Ships of the White Star Line, specifically the Titanic (because I don't know a lot about the physics of a sinking ship and the Titanic would serve nicely), while The Hound is based on the Whydah Gally. Samuel's skiff is the same as in-game.


End file.
